Scenes From A Hat
by Zefyria Nuva
Summary: Professor of archaeology, puzzle hobbyist, proper gentleman, surrogate father, close friend, and more: a collection of the many roles improvised by the man known as Hershel Layton. /Drabble collection. No (overt) pairings. Beware spoilers if reviewing; I have not yet played Miracle Mask.\
1. The Fair

**I - The Fair**

"Professor?"

Hershel Layton lifted his eyes from the report he had been grading, resignation already curling in the pit of his stomach. Both of his companions stood with their hands folded behind their backs, their eyes wide and innocent. Luke's were lit with hope, while bright anticipation glittered in Emmy's.

"Dare I ask what you two are up to this time?" Hershel asked in a dry voice.

"I don't know," Emmy said, grinning. "How daring are you?"

Luke elbowed her. "What she means is," he said, ignoring the nasty look she shot him, "we had an idea. And we were sort of hoping you'd come along with us."

Hershel glanced at the clock. Classes had long since ended for the day, but his students had just turned in their research papers. He'd barely begun the grading process. Could he really afford to interrupt himself so soon, with as many classes as he'd had to cancel this year? His students hadn't exactly _suffered_ for his absence, but he had already wasted so much of their time, calling off class for one adventure or another. He owed it to them to at least return their reports in a timely manner.

"You see," Emmy said, "there's a street fair today, and they say one of the merchants has brought puzzles based on ancient records and riddles. He claims no one alive but him could possibly solve them."

Hershel's eyebrows lifted so high they nearly disappeared past the brim of his hat. "Oh?"

Emmy's grin returned full-force. Even Luke offered up a smile, his shoulders relaxing. "'Oh,' indeed!" Emmy continued. "I asked him if he'd ever even heard the name 'Hershel Layton,' and he scoffed! Said not even you would be able to figure out the tricks of his little trinkets!"

"He was awfully rude about it," Luke said. "I'd bet fifteen quid he's only here to to try to stump you, Professor."

Hershel looked up at the clock again. It was a little past dinner time. The fair would have only just begun to fill up properly, with students free from classes and families home from work. The pace would pick up and remain at frenetic speeds until long after sundown. Tomorrow was a weekend, after all. Who needed to be up early on a Saturday?

He set the report down on his desk. "I'll have to stop by my flat first. If you'll help me pack in some of these reports, we'll be there all the faster."

Emmy pumped her fist, and Luke let out a little cheer. Hershel could only smile at their enthusiasm as they set to work, straightening piles of paperwork and splitting them into stacks small enough to fit in his briefcase. At this rate, they'd be down to the fair in half an hour at most. That would please both of them immensely. And then he would learn the truth about this mysterious puzzle-seller.

He had his suspicions, of course. But where was the fun in mentioning them now? A true gentleman observed patience in all things.

* * *

"Where in the world could he have gotten off to?!"

Hershel watched Emmy stomp back and forth in front of their picnic table. His eyes crinkled with amusement as she brandished a giant turkey leg, punctuating every sentence or so with a large bite. Luke had one as well, and sat near Hershel's elbow, devouring it with gusto. Hershel himself had already finished off his funnel cake, and sat with his fingers laced beneath his chin, following the play of the multicolored neon lights as they bounced off Emmy's hair.

The breeze that swept in off the river was cool and light in the evening air. Above them, past the kaleidoscopic daze of music and laughter and glittering lights, the dark mantle of night had almost settled, enveloping all but the faintest hints of pale, creamy orange to the west. It was a perfect night for a festival such as this. So close to summer vacation, with the weather so agreeable, even Hershel himself had begun to feel the stirrings of cabin fever.

"Maybe he realized he was in over his head," Luke said through his latest mouthful of food. "I bet he didn't expect the Professor to actually show up!"

"It's quite all right," Hershel said. "It was clear from the start that I was never meant to match wits against this mysterious puzzle vendor of yours."

Both Emmy and Luke blinked at him. He smiled and tilted his head towards the rows of vendors, his eyes gleaming.

"I looked very carefully. There wasn't a single empty booth. If this vendor had disappeared in the half-hour before we arrived, his place would have been conspicuously empty, would it not?"

Luke swallowed his food so quickly he almost choked on it. "Maybe someone else filled his place?"

"Doubtful," Hershel said. "Vendors for fairs such as this sign on months in advance. No businessman would miss the opportunity to have a minor celebrity stop by their stall, even if they did find themselves bested by that celebrity."

Emmy snorted. "How modest, Professor! I didn't know you could be so humble."

Hershel's smile didn't falter. "The waiting list must have been long," he continued, "but unless the vendors were local, how could the staff have contacted them so quickly? They should have arrived just as we did, or at the very least, still been in the process of arranging their wares. Tell me, Emmy—did you see any such booths? Or you, Luke?"

Emmy's face went red. Luke ducked his head and took another large bite of his turkey leg, forestalling any response he might have made.

"Well," Emmy said, folding her arms, "maybe he took a booth someone else was planning to use and got kicked out for it! Or maybe—"

"Come off it, Emmy." Luke peered up at Hershel, then back down at his food. "I told you he'd figure it out."

"It was worth a shot," Emmy huffed, flopping down on the picnic table across from the two of them. "Honestly, I thought he'd twig sooner than that! Are you losing your touch, Professor?"

Hershel chuckled. "Hardly. A merchant who deals not only in puzzles, but ancient archeological ones? Far too convenient." Emmy frowned, earning another soft laugh from him. "The next time you hatch a plot to coax me out of my office, you might want to go with something a bit more believable."

"So you're not mad at us?" Luke asked, his voice hesitant.

Hershel's smile grew gentle. He dropped one hand on top of Luke's head, and Emmy's eyes flashed with something that greatly resembled protectiveness. He filed the observation away for later.

"Of course I'm not mad." He noted the way Emmy's shoulders relaxed, and the way a cautious smile tugged at the corners of Luke's mouth. "I can't condone the deception, but I suppose, given the nature of the people involved, it was inevitable."

"Oi!" Emmy's eyes flared up again. "What's that supposed to mean?!"

"It means you're a liar and a scoundrel," Luke supplied, his tiny smile from before blossoming into something decidedly more wicked.

Hershel sighed quietly to himself and tilted his eyes skyward as the two began to bicker. On a normal day, he would still be in his office at this hour. In fact, he probably wouldn't have left his office at all tonight, not with the amount of paperwork he had left to review.

He'd greeted several of his students here at the fair. Most of them had noticed him with genuine surprise, some fewer with genuine delight. All had asked him, earnestly or jokingly, what could have possibly drawn him out of his office and into the real world. He was, after all, infamous amongst students and staff for how rarely he ventured forth from his own desk, if there wasn't a class to be taught or a puzzle to be solved.

"I think," he said, stilling the argument that roiled on just below him, "we should get going soon, if you're both finished eating. We still have plenty of other booths to visit, and I'm not certain when the fair shuts down for the evening."

Both of his companions smiled. Emmy pulled out her map of the fair and spread it across the table, and what had been a squabble just moments ago shifted into an intense strategy debate. What booths to visit first, in what order? What rides to hit now? Which ones could wait until later when the lines had died down? Would they have time to get to both Luke's favorite mirror maze and the Cyclone ride Emmy wanted to test out before the fair closed? And did they really want to stay that late?

Of course they did. They were both young and full of energy, and Hershel couldn't hold back the smile that pulled at the corners of his lips as two pairs of anxious eyes turned towards him, awaiting his approval.

"We'd best get started, then," he said, rising to his feet. "This evening won't last forever."

But as they drifted through the technicolor haze of lights and smells and sounds, as the night grew long and their feet grew weary, as their energy spiked and then flagged until Emmy had to carry a dozing Luke off the bus and into Hershel's flat, as they tucked Luke into the room that had already begun its transformation from "spare bedroom" to "Luke's room", as Emmy settled down on his sofa and fell asleep before he could bring her the cup of tea she had asked for...Hershel very nearly caught himself wishing it would.


	2. Responsibility

**II - Responsibility**

A rattling crash from outside his study snapped Hershel's attention away from his work. His hand jerked towards the blade he kept hidden in the umbrella stand beside his desk, concealed among the staffs and masks (and even an actual umbrella or two) he usually kept there. He hovered there for half a second, head still bowed over his desk, his ears turned to the rooms beyond his own.

The sound did not repeat itself. Hershel considered the handle of his rapier, and then rose to his feet and slipped out of his study without it. He knew the layout of his own flat better than any intruder might. If he had to, he could pick up any number of decorative bowls and vases in order to defend himself.

Someone was muttering to themselves in the kitchen. Hershel paused just outside to listen. After a moment, his shoulders relaxed, and he stepped around the corner with his arms folded.

Luke knelt in the middle of a pot apocalypse, grumbling as he wrestled one after the other back into their cupboard beside the stove. None of the glass lids appeared to be cracked or broken, Hershel determined after a quick sweep of the chaos. They had simply rolled all across the kitchen floor. Luke fumbled with one and almost dropped it, but caught it again and regaled it with a scornful glare.

"Having trouble, Luke?" Hershel said.

Luke whirled and nearly dropped the lid again. "Oh," he said, pressing his back against the stove. "I was just, er— Well, I was going to—"

Hershel smiled. He picked up the saucepan that sat tilted against the wall beside the door. "You aren't in trouble. I'd just like to know how my cooking utensils ended up all over the floor."

Luke's shoulders slouched. He folded his arms and glared at the open cupboard beside him. "I didn't mean to," he said, "honest I didn't! It's just that you were busy, and it's getting late, so I was going to try to make something for dinner."

Hershel frowned. His first reaction was that it couldn't possibly be that late already. He clearly remembered sending Luke off to do his homework and checking the time before he sat down at his own desk. They had returned from campus only a few hours ago, hadn't they?

The clock on the stove said otherwise. He gave it a rueful look, and almost as though to spite him, the bright green digits ticked forward to the next minute, instead of doing something more desirable like reversing themselves.

"Well," he said, "it appears I quite lost track of the time." Luke rolled his eyes skyward, and Hershel arched one eyebrow. "You could have brought it to my attention."

"You were busy," Luke said, but despite the steadiness of his voice, he didn't quite meet Hershel's eyes. "And you asked me not to disturb you until you were finished."

Hershel regarded him in silence. Then he closed his eyes and sighed very quietly, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. Yes, he remembered that clearly enough, as well. But he hadn't been quite so forceful about it as Luke seemed to believe. Where in the world had he gotten that idea from?

"My work isn't so important that I'm going to ignore you if you're getting hungry," Hershel said. "Your needs always take precedence."

"I thought I could handle macaroni and cheese by myself," Luke muttered. "I wasn't going to bother you because it wasn't important. It would have been fine if the pots hadn't all fallen out." He picked up a skillet and turned back to the cupboard, his jaw set. "So I'll just put them away again except for the one I need. I'll make enough for you to eat whenever you're hungry."

He stacked the skillet on top of one of the deeper pots and reached for another. As soon as he drew his hands away, the skillet slid off the pot and clattered to the floor again. Hershel's lips quirked at the level of pure vitriol in the look Luke gave it.

Hershel sat down on the tile beside Luke and set his saucepan down on top of the fallen skillet. He met Luke's glare with a gentle smile.

"Nest them inside each other," he said, picking up a slightly smaller pot and setting it inside the saucepan. "When you stack them together like this, it makes it much easier to put them away. Think of it the way you would a puzzle."

Determination flared in Luke's eyes. Hershel snaked two of the smaller pots and placed them on the stove as Luke set to work. He kept watch out of the corner of his eye as Luke spent the next several minutes organizing the fallen cookware, using a level of caution and care he hadn't shown before.

"There!" Luke stood and put his hands on his waist, grinning. "Done! Now I guess I'll need..." His voice trailed off. A smile twitched at the corners of Hershel's lips at the dawning realization on Luke's face. While he had been so deftly organizing the pots and pans, Hershel had set a pot of water to boil. He opened a box of uncooked noodles and poured them into the pot as Luke's silence stretched on.

"Do you mind fetching the milk and some cheese?" Hershel asked, switching on the second burner. "Whatever kind of cheese you'd like. There's plenty."

Luke brought the items wordlessly from the refridgerator. It wasn't until Hershel set him to stirring the cheese sauce while he drained the noodles that Luke spoke again, staring into the pot with morose eyes.

"I could've done it myself."

"I know," Hershel said, tipping his hat back from his forehead—the steam from the noodles had him unfortunately sweaty, and it would be a shame to stain the inside too terribly. "But a true gentleman must never shirk his responsibilities, no matter what."

Luke frowned at him. "But your work—"

"Can wait," Hershel said firmly. "A gentleman must also admit to his mistakes, Luke. And I've made a very critical one today." He picked up the strainer and carried it over to the stove, repressing a smile as Luke scrambled out of his way. "I've neglected to take into account a very important variable, one I've never had to consider before: you."

Luke folded his arms and looked away. "But I can take care of myself! You don't have to worry so much about me. I promised you that I'd stay out of your way, and I will, honest!"

"You misunderstand me," Hershel said gently. "For as long as you choose to stay here, yes, it is my responsibility to care for you. But it's also my privilege to do so. The only problem is that I've lived by myself for a very long time now. You'll have to forgive me if it takes me some time to adjust."

Luke cast him a skeptical look. "When do you normally eat dinner?"

Hershel's smile was dry. "Late, if I get to it at all. There have been days when I didn't even leave my office until now."

He finished mixing the macaroni and turned off the stove. When he pulled the pot off and turned around, he found Luke standing right in the middle of the kitchen with his hands on his hips. His eyes were firm, and Hershel had to struggle to keep his eyes from crinkling in amusement at that stern expression.

"Then from now on," Luke said, "I'm going to make sure you always come out to eat dinner on-time! Emmy already makes sure you leave your office at a regular time, so I can do this instead. And I'll be sure to fetch you for lunch on weekends, too. I'd wake you for breakfast, but you're always awake before I am anyway."

"Then why don't I wake you for breakfast, instead?" Hershel asked. "It's a bit closer to even that way."

Luke considered for a moment. Then he nodded, his expression still solemn. "Deal. That way we're both responsible for each other, instead of you being responsible all the time. Because if a gentleman always takes responsibility for everything else, then who's going to be responsible for him?"

He flashed Hershel a bright grin, and darted around him to fetch a set of bowls and spoons. Hershel said nothing in response to the question, but it seemed he didn't need to. Luke was certain enough of his own answer. And really, whatever solution he found to his puzzle, who was Hershel to argue? As long as Luke was content, then so was he.


	3. Raucous

**III - Raucous**

"Lunch time, gentlemen!"

Luke and Hershel both looked up from their respective work—Hershel from his lesson plan, Luke from the math work he had spread out across the carpet. Emmy stood in the doorway, two massive paper bags resting against each hip and a broad grin splashed across her face.

"I know you two must be famished," she said. "You've been hard at work all day. So I decided to treat you both! Aren't I wonderful?"

Was it time for lunch already? Hershel shot the clock on his desk a mildly irritated look as Emmy swept into the room. Perhaps he ought to consider investing in alarm clocks. He was beginning to realize exactly how often time slipped away from him, and the realization was not an entirely pleasant one.

One of the brown paper bags landed in front of Hershel's nose, blocking his view to the clock. He lifted an eyebrow at Emmy's smug smirk. "The cafeteria is barely a minute's walk from here, you know."

"I know," Emmy said. "But we always eat at the cafeteria. It gets so boring." She flipped Luke's textbook shut with the toe of her boot. "I can spend my wages on whatever I please, and if I want to buy lunch, you can't exactly stop me, can you?"

"I suppose not," Hershel said, resignation coloring his voice.

He unrolled the top of the paper bag and peered inside. The smell of fresh deli meat wafted up out of the bag, and his stomach gave a quiet rumble in response. Behind him, Luke cleared his homework out of her way with a sweep of his arm, and Emmy set her second bag on the carpet where his papers had been.

Hershel turned to give them a critical look. Emmy lifted her eyebrows. "What?"

"You could at least use the sofa," he said. "It's there for a reason."

"But then we'd get crumbs all over it," Luke said. He had already pulled out an apple and an absolutely massive sandwich, and sat with both balanced in his lap. "Or ketchup! Mum always says ketchup is impossible to get out of furniture."

"It isn't any easier to get out of the cracks in the floor," Hershel responded dryly. "Especially if it stains the wood. Rosa will have your hides for this."

Emmy rolled her eyes skyward. "Well, if you would get over here with our plates and napkins, it wouldn't be so much of a problem, now, would it?"

Hershel opened his bag again and examined its contents more fully. Paper plates, a stack of napkins, plastic cups, a bottle of soda, and of course, his own sandwich (not nearly as impressive as Luke's, but still of respectable size). Emmy removed a second soda bottle from her own bag, along with a plastic tray. She set it on the carpet and spread it with the remaining food—a few more apples, some pears, and a full bunch of bananas.

Hershel bit back a quiet sigh. "I appreciate the thought, Emmy, but doesn't this seem a bit excessive?"

"Oh, come off it, Professor!" Luke set his already half-eaten sandwich on his knee and reached over to tug at the edge of Hershel's coat. "You're always telling me that a true gentleman never turns down a gift. So come eat with us!"

"We do still need our plates," Emmy said. "If you're going to be stubborn, at least hand us our things!"

Hershel was growing altogether too accustomed to peer pressure from these two. It had made him uncomfortable at first, with both of them teaming up to drag him in whatever direction they willed. Now he returned their wide-eyed stares with a level look of his own, one eyebrow quirked upward (though a small smile tugged at his lips as Luke took a large bite of his sandwich without lowering his eyes).

Hershel finally let out a sigh. "I suppose you won't let me eat in peace if I don't, will you?"

"Of course not," Emmy said with a smirk. "What sorts of assistants would we be if we did?"

Hershel picked up his bag and joined the two of them on the floor. Luke had already finished his sandwich by that point. Emmy tossed him a banana and peeled one for herself, leaning back against the sofa.

Luke pulled open Emmy's paper bag, but it was empty. His brows furrowed. "Didn't you get anything, Emmy?"

Emmy scoffed. "Of course I did! I wasn't about to haul it all the way back here before digging in, though." She slapped her palm against her stomach. "All that legwork requires fuel!"

"Don't you have a scooter?" Luke asked.

Emmy scowled at him, and at Hershel when he began to chuckle. "That's not the point!" she snipped. "Honestly! I spend my hard-earned time and money on you two, and all you can do is insult me? Ingrates, the lot of you!"

Luke giggled hard enough to nearly choke on his apple. Emmy threw her banana peel at him, but her eyes sparkled with sharp amusement. In the bickering and chaos that followed, Hershel was the only one who noticed his office door swing open, and sent the woman standing in the door an apologetic smile.

"Good afternoon, Rosa."

All motion ceased. Rosa put her hands on her hips, broom leaning against one shoulder, and scanned the room with critical eyes. Hershel could sense her ticking each box on her mental list as her eyes swept from one side to the other. Luke and Emmy followed her progress with wide eyes, shoulders tensed against the overwhelming weight of silence. She scratched at her hair beneath her white bandana and sighed, shaking her head.

"I'll never get this room properly cleaned," she said, "will I? You lot are always finding new and interesting ways to dirty everything." She pointed her mop at Hershel. "It was bad enough when you were here on your own! Now you've got children mucking about as well!"

"Hey!" Luke and Emmy protested simultaneously. They blinked at each other, and Hershel couldn't hold back his smile.

"I'm very sorry about this," Hershel said, gathering up the few things his assistant and apprentice hadn't yet knocked over. "Don't worry yourself about it. We'll sweep this up ourselves."

"Oh, will you now?" Rosa said. She snorted in derision. "Not likely! You'll go off gallivanting somewhere else, and I'll have to come in and do it over anyway. You always did miss the crumbs that fell into the cracks."

Hershel tugged at the brim of his hat, his cheeks gone warm as Emmy and Luke shot him amused looks. "Are you absolutely certain? We did make this mess, after all. Best if we clean it up."

Rosa tutted and bustled into the room, but there was a smile on her wide face. "Oh, go on with you. If it weren't for the constant mess in this office, I'd be out of a job."

"_Constant_ mess?" Hershel protested, but his voice was nearly lost beneath the sniggers of his companions.

Rosa drew herself up to her full height (only to Hershel's chest, but the result was still impressive). "Do you take me for a liar or a layabout, Professor? You might be a leading authority in your field, but I don't need a doctorate to be an expert in mine. And I can tell you without a doubt, your office is the result of a rare combination of genius, obsession, and devotion to his students: Messy, messy, messy!" She punctuated the last few words with a short jab of her broom to Hershel's chest. "Now, if you don't mind too terribly, _I_ have a floor to scrub before the ketchup stains set in. So get out, all of you! Out!"

Luke and Emmy leaped to their feet and scrambled for the door. Hershel lingered and attempted to object, but Rosa spun him around and sent him out his own door with a good whack of her broom to the back of his thigh. She slammed the door shut behind him and clicked the lock shut.

Emmy and Luke sagged against the wall and laughed until tears streamed down their cheeks. Hershel pursed his lips and sent them both a mild look. "And what, exactly, are you two laughing at?"

"She's practically your mother!" Luke had his arms curled around his stomach, barely able to speak around his convulsive laughter. "Kicked us out of your own office! So she could _clean!_"

"If I didn't know better," Emmy chortled, "I'd say you were afraid of her!"

Hershel sighed. He straightened his coat and tugged at the brim of his hat until he was certain he had regained at least some of his dignity. "It seems," he said over his companions' commotion, "we'll have to find something else to do until Rosa sees fit to return my office to me. I suppose now is as good a time as ever to explore the student gardens you wanted to see, Luke?"

Luke cheered and threw his fists in the air. "Thank you, Rosa!" he called through the door, and then darted off down the hallway. Emmy followed after him, hollering at him to slow down. Did he even know the way to the gardens? He was going to get lost in this place, and no one would come find him, because he deserved it.

Hershel followed at a more sedate pace. He apologized to fellow staff members who sent irate or amused looks out of their office doors, and picked up his pace as soon as he left the office wing behind. After all, Emmy didn't know her way to the gardens, either. And with the meal they'd just eaten, whatever powers that were only knew how far they would get before tiring out and realizing they were both utterly hopeless.


	4. Metallic

**IV - Metallic**

Hershel paused just outside the living room and tilted his ear towards the doorway. He held a tray nestled with sandwiches and cups of merrily-steeping tea. When he had departed to the kitchen to make them lunch, Emmy and Luke had only just begun their little competition, and now it was well underway. It would be quite rude of him to walk into the room while Luke was still in the middle of his poem.

It had been Emmy's idea, of course, as most things seemed to be. They had both noticed Luke struggling to grow more social towards the inhabitants of his new home. Hershel had predicted as much, in fact, based on his initial aversion to Emmy. Luke was comfortable enough now around the two of them and a few other staff members, but whenever any of Hershel's students were involved, he grew silent and stubborn. Not a single word from either one of them could convince him to join the conversation, even when it was about something he had in the past shown interest in.

Emmy was the first to come up with a plot—and it was very much a plot, with all the sneaky half-manipulation Hershel had come to expect from her. She had proposed a little game between herself and Luke. They would each memorize as many poems as possible and recite them aloud, with all the proper emotion, as though they were speaking to someone out of their very souls. The winner would get to recite a poem at the next student function the three of them attended. It was a clever ploy, and Hershel was hardly surprised when Luke's eyes lit up with anticipation.

Emmy clapped and cheered as Luke finished his poem and bowed with a flourish. He popped back up and smiled. "How was that?"

"Brilliant!" Emmy said. "You're awfully good at roaring and raging at the universe. Dylan Thomas would be in tears if he could have heard that performance."

"I bet he's too busy rolling in his grave," Luke laughed. He flopped down on the sofa and pushed her off the cushions. "Your turn! Go on!"

"Oh, all right," Emmy said with a dramatic sigh. "If I must." She straightened her skirt and squared back her shoulders. Hershel took another step towards the door, but stopped short again as she began. "For my next performance, I'll be reciting 'Annabel Lee', by Edgar Allan Poe."

Ice flooded Hershel's veins.

_(Her hair shines copper in the sunlight, curls over her shoulder, falls soft against her round face. One slender finger trails along the page. Her brows furrow, dark eyes focusing intently on dark words.)_

Emmy smiled and tossed her hair over her shoulder. When she spoke, her voice rang clear, but her eyes were misty, as though remembering something through years and years of heavy fog.

"It was many and many a year ago,

In a kingdom by the sea,

That a maiden there lived whom you may know

By the name of Annabel Lee;

And this maiden she lived with no other thought

Than to love and be loved by me."

_(The lenses over her eyes glint in the golden light. White dress shuffles as she half-turns toward him. She lifts her head. Smiles._

_Sorry. I didn't see you come in. Have you been there long?)_

"I was a child and she was a child,

In this kingdom by the sea;

But we loved with a love that was more than love,

I and my Annabel Lee;

With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven

Coveted her and me."

Hershel took several steps back and leaned against the wall. A sour, metallic tang filled his mouth. When he spared a glance at his hands, he noted they were shaking. His knuckles had gone white from how tightly he gripped the tray. Not a good sign, some dim, detached part of his mind observed. But at least he wouldn't drop the thing.

_(She looks down at the book. Cups it in ceramic hands, a china doll cradling a precious jewel, reclining in splendor on her cushions in the window._

_Do you know this poem?)_

"And this was the reason that, long ago,

In this kingdom by the sea,

A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling

My beautiful Annabel Lee;

So that her highborn kinsman came

And bore her away from me,

To shut her up in a sepulchre

In this kingdom by the sea."

_(It was the last complete poem he ever wrote, you know. It wasn't even published until a few years after his death._

_One tawny curl escapes over her forehead. She brushes it back with an impatient motion. Her skirt bunches around her ankles. Bare toes curl into the cushions.)_

"But our love it was stronger by far than the love

Of those who were older than we—

Of many far wiser than we—

And neither the angels in heaven above,

Nor the demons down under the sea,

Can ever dissever my soul from the soul

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee."

_(She snaps the book shut with one hand. Balances it on her knee. Looks up again, an apologetic smile curling at her lips. The window is a wall of light and she is curled against it, painted in bronze and copper and brass and gold._

_I'm sorry, I'm sure you don't care a lick about it.) _

"For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side

Of my darling— my darling— my life and my bride,

In the sepulchre there by the sea,

In her tomb by the sounding sea."

_(But this is one of my favorites.)_

Emmy dropped into a deep bow, her dark brown curls sweeping over her shoulders, and for half a second, Hershel saw them glow copper, ablaze with the light of an afternoon sun streaming in through a wide bay window. Then she straightened, and eyes that were just a few shades too dark, sepia instead of sienna, met his.

"Professor?"

The concern in her voice and the way her eyes widened made him glance down at himself again. The tray was still in his hands, but the surface of the tea rippled with the vibrations humming down from his shoulders. He breathed in deeply and unwound his muscles, unlocked his elbows, drew away from the wall and stood under his own power again.

"What's wrong, Professor?" Luke already had a hand wound into his sleeve. Alarm lit his eyes up like searchlights, sounded in his voice like warning bells. "Are you all right?"

"Don't just stand there and ask him questions!" Emmy snapped. "He looks about to faint!"

She caught Hershel's other elbow and steered him into the living room before he could gather his wits enough to protest. Luke pulled the tray out of his hands and set it on the low table, and Emmy deposited him rather unceremoniously on the sofa. She backed up and put her hands on her hips, her lips pursed.

"I'm fine," Hershel managed to push out. A taste like the sharp edges of tin foil lingered on his tongue. At least his voice was steady, if a little fainter than he might have liked it to be. "It's nothing. Just a dizzy spell. Perhaps I didn't eat enough this morning."

Emmy and Luke traded doubtful glances. Hershel was certain he didn't ever eat enough by their standards. He was also certain they didn't believe a single word of it. He would have been disappointed in both of them if they had. A skeptical, questioning mind was an invaluable resource, after all.

He tried to rise, but Emmy put a hand on his shoulder and Luke caught his hand. "_Stay put,_" they said simultaneously, and Hershel might have laughed if he had been completely in control of his own faculties right now. As it was, he was lucky to manage a thin smile.

People were like puzzles. Once you understood their patterns, their behaviors were easy to predict. Hershel knew already that until he returned to them and to himself, apprehension would drip from every word and look and motion. He knew Emmy would stay long past the time she might usually go home, long enough to cook dinner and hover over him until he ate a satisfactory amount of it. He knew Luke would stay up long past the time he should have been in bed, only to fall asleep at some ungodly hour in the morning, curled up against Hershel's side. He knew they would ask him again and again until frustration wore them down what had happened. What was wrong. What they could do to help.

He knew he would have no answer for them.

And he knew that all he would taste for the rest of the night would be sour metal—that all he would see would be bronze and copper and brass and gold.


End file.
